


Sentiment.

by baskerville



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Other, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:26:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baskerville/pseuds/baskerville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft visits his brother's grave, admitting a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment.

**Author's Note:**

> A small drabble focused on Mycroft's handling Sherlock's death before he'd found out his brother was still alive.

It’d been three years since Sherlock had taken his life on the roof of Saint Bart’s that day. Leaping from the top of the building, down, onto the cold concrete below, leaving not only himself in shambles, but the people whom he was trying to protect as well. 

Though John was one of Sherlock’s closest, and only friends, Mrs. Hudson his landlady, and even an in denial colleague like Detective Inspector Lestrade, no one took Sherlock’s death quite as hard as Mycroft did. Of course, a certain amount of disappointment was shown in Sherlock’s death, it was his brother, so, that was to be expected. 

But it was the months before Mycroft heard it was all fake, before Sherlock snuck into his office one day, assuring him that he is indeed still alive. It was the crushing stretch of agonizing depression that brought you the scene you see before you. 

Mycroft’s career often called for hours of countless work, meetings and papers. After his brother’s death, however, he took it upon himself to completely throw away his work, for the time being, to cope. At least once a day, he would make his way to the tombstone set out for his younger sibling, and taking a seat in front of it, he’d often converse with the decorative slate of black marble, 

Often, he’d speak to the freshly dug soil about the past, about their family, mother, all that. While others, he’d simply lay a bouquet of flowers, and return to his home. 

However, that day, it was raining. The graying clouds above giving birth to soft, subtle rain. Mycroft frowned, his umbrella coming to open above his head to stop the gentle drops. 

“How have you been brother? I do miss you so, if you believe that…" The man’s eyes trailed off to the rest of the yard, inhaling sharply. Mycroft may not be exactly like his little brother, but he certainly did share the belief in sentiment. It was a pointless sense of self. Especially when he took into consideration what Sherlock’s response would be if he were here. So, the elder Holmes quickly blinked back the tears, and cleared his throat to cut away the nothingness. Throwing aside all of the unspoken words, and thoughts. Forgetting how he was about to sob grossly in front of this grave, admitting to the ghost that dwells within it just how much he missed his obnoxious little brother, and immediately dismissing the fact that from the beginning, he’d been blaming himself for the Consulting Detective’s death. No, instead of embracing those actions, he avoided them, his eyes rolling up to the sky. 

"Quite a storm, little brother…," he said after a moment of silence, shifting. For some reason, seeing the droplets trickle down the black, sleek setting of the tombstone made him uneasy. Lowering his umbrella, a small sigh escaped him. The rain soon engulfed him, but he didn’t mind. Slowly, he brought a hand out to the displayed name, running his finger over the golden letters to brush away the water. 

“Don’t want you getting sick." The harsh whisper was followed by Mycroft’s gently laying the umbrella, still open, against the tombstone, coming to stand once again as he clearly inspected his work. With empty eyes and bleeding heart, the oldest Holmes, then shook his head. The ringing of his cellphone bringing him back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his device , swiping a finger to accept the call. It was his work. Of course they’d need him at a time like this. People just don’t know anything about decent timing. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll be there shortly." The calm, almost eerie politeness of his tone easily slid by the aggressiveness he held in his eyes, hiding it from ear. Exhaling slowly, he put the phone away, looking back to ‘Sherlock’. Without the words to guide him, he only swallowed, giving a soft nod. 

"Sentiment, little brother… I suppose I’m being changed by the chemical defect like you said…On the losing side… " With the rain still washing over him, Mycroft Holmes turned away from the black marble display, and made his way back to the car, to another day in attempting to cope, with the Suicide of a Fake Genius.


End file.
